


Roses are red, roses are blue

by lothya



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Gore, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor is bad at being human, Connor licks stuff, Deepthroat mentioned, Deviant!Connor is still a machine, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Lime, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), but he tries, weird porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothya/pseuds/lothya
Summary: "Connor’s LED stops blinking for a moment, as he processes this little display of affection with the deviant side of his brain. Ever since the Revolution he keeps trying to blend into human society, yet the process is immensely sophisticated, complicated further by the fact that a very little number of free androids choose to associate with humans willingly. The breach seems to be too deep to cross."A dangerous condition prompts Connor to take a close look upon the differences between him and human beings. At some step, a deepthroat blowjob is kind of involved (or not).(Not much of explicit stuff inside, since I'm hilariously bad at porn, but rather some occasional steamy takes on Connor licking stuff.)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Roses are red, roses are blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an almost-canon-compliant hanahaki story, so please make sure it's among your kinks :)

***

The spring is finally coming to Detroit.

As an old rusty Lincoln roars through sun-kissed streets clogged with snow slush and thawing garbage, Connor runs through the photos pinned to a thin blue folder for the third time.

Victim, Anna-Sofie Morello, 22. Stabbed with a kitchen knife, murder weapon located nearby.

Possible suspects: android seen in the household lately?

Connor lowers his long eyelashes to block off the sunlight when the car takes a sharp turn, and concentrates on constructing a model of the room in his headspace. He has learned this quickly while working with Hank; nobody likes it when he freezes with an absentminded look on his face for more than two seconds.

So, the knife was left right next to the body. Whoever did this didn't care enough to take it with them - a crime in a state of affect?

It's noted here that no fingerprints were registered on the knife despite signs of recent use: cue possible lead to android culprit.

Connor dislikes strongly the idea of androids killing people; somehow, it always hits too close to comfort. He isn't a big fan of bloodshed in general… The car comes to an abrupt stop, breaking his train of thought.

***

Connor follows Hank into a small yet cozy kitchen, now desecrated with a dead body of its unfortunate owner. He passes bored guards with their smartphones and stops briefly to scan the room for hidden clues.

And the first thing he notices is a scatter of thirium traces.

All. Over. Every. Surface.

A sudden data overflow forces him to reset his forensic optical sensors, and for a couple of seconds he just stays frozen in place, blinking blindly with his LED spinning yellow like crazy.

\- Hey. You there? - Hank's heavy palm lands on Connor’s shoulder, and he finally manages to get his vision adjusted.

\- Sorry, - Connor blinks once more, focusing on Hank's face. - Optical malfunction, I'll need to run a self-diagnostic routine later, - he pulls back gently and gives the room another look.

\- Okay, - Hank gives him one more solid pat on the shoulder. - Okay. Tell me what you see.

Connor blinks again.

\- I can't believe it, - he starts quietly. - It's… thirium, blue blood, everywhere.

He kneels, and slides his gentle fingers across ceramic floor tile. Then reaches for his lips, and gives his dust-stained fingertips a taste.

\- Jesus Christ! Connor, shoo! - Hank almost grabs the android by the collar, but changes his mind.

One of the guards lets out a poorly suppressed chuckle, but is immediately stared down.

\- Let's go check a body, but no licking. Poor girl deserves some dignity after all, - Hank grumbles approaching the large puddle of blood next to the kitchen counter, in which Anna-Sofie rests like a mermaid queen next to the weapon of her demise.

Connor follows, scanning the surrounding surfaces for fingerprints.

\- Look, Hank, - he leans on the counter with his casual elegance. - There is no reason to not take advantage of my software. It is efficient, designed precisely to… - he stops as Hank seemingly ignores him, fiddling with a tin can crowned with a small rose bouquet. The flowers possess intricate, almost neon blue color; Connor runs a quick scan and registers the material as plastic with heavy thirium coating. - You don't want to touch that.

Hank puts the jar down and gives it a small nudge; the jar tips over and rolls away with a quiet sad rattle. - As I was saying…

Connor trails off again, this time reacting to a small, almost indistinguishable sound coming from the nearest bedroom. He tenses up, senses overclocked, his software going into battle mode.

Hank notices the subtle change in his partner immediately. He draws his gun, and makes a couple of soft, soundless steps towards the room door. For a moment that feels like eternity the whole house stands still, resonant with foreboding - and then in less than a second the door flings open, and a rogue android bolts right into Hank, intent to push him down as hard as possible.

Connor is ready. With the predatory grace of a cheetah he darts across the kitchen just in time to collide with the attacker and repel the blow; both tumble on the floor, breaking the furniture. As Connor tries to pin his adversary down, he notices an eerie state of disarray the android is in: overheated, with its chestplate corroded and mouth and chin stained in thirium.

\- Why couldn’t she love me, - he wheezes angrily, trying to wrestle out of Connor’s grasp, - I gave her the flowers! Why…

Connor allocates a part of his brain to deciphering the possible meaning of his words; this leads to motor reactions delay that costs him dear: android reaches for the knife on the floor, and...

A deafening sound of gunfire breaks the struggle off. With his last breath the android spits a handful of thirium-soaked rose petals into Connor's face, and deactivates promptly.

\- Hey, Con, you alright? - Hank already rushes to lend his partner a hand, but Connor lingers. He touches his cheek, smudging the droplets of blue blood, and puts the finger to his mouth. - Oh, Jesus. Ew!

\- I'm fine, - he answers, ignoring Hank's righteous disgust. - It's not mine.

\- See, that's what I'm talking about! - Hank grabs him by the shoulders, and ushers him into upright position.

Confused, Connor looks around, pretending to scan the surroundings. Did he imagine the rose petals coming out of android's mouth? Why would an android keep plastic rose petals in its mouth in the first place?

\- Con, you're spacing out again, - that's Hank, solid concern in his voice; it dawns on Connor he must look suspicious stuck in the middle of a crime scene with his LED running frantic yellow. He eases up, and focuses his eyes on Hank.

\- Sorry. Sorry, - he studies Hank's worried face as means of concentrating. - I need to go outside and run a quick self-test, okay?

Hank nods sympathetically. 

\- Yeah. You go, do your whatever, - he makes a broad gesture towards the exit.

Connor nods mechanically in response; as he leaves, he thinks that maybe his software isn't that good after all.

Hank watches him closely. He sighs heavily as the door closes, and gives a small empty tin can under his right shoe a light kick.

***

Hank finds Connor outside - perched on the stairs, motionless, with his LED glowing yellow steadily. He makes no effort to conceal his steps, but Connor doesn’t react, staying unsettlingly concentrated. Only when Hank gives him a shoulder pat the spell is broken, leaving Connor startled.

\- Here, sign this, - there is a dirty plastic tablet in Hank's extended hand for Connor to shift his attention to. He accepts the tablet and pretends to study the first opened image thoroughly, but his confused state is too obvious to escape Hank's attention. With a loud huff he perches next to the android, doing his best to keep his balance. - Con, you look distant. Is something wrong?

Connor freezes with the tablet in his hands, pale screen giving just enough glow to lighten his deep hazel eyes.

\- I don’t get it. I’ve run several scans, and nothing’s wrong with me.

\- Well, that’s supposed to be good? - Hank gives Connor’s shoulder an affectionate ruff; a small smile warms his face, softening his heavy steel-gray gaze. 

Connor’s LED stops blinking for a moment, as he processes this little display of affection with the deviant side of his brain. Ever since the Revolution he keeps trying to blend into human society, yet the process is immensely sophisticated, complicated further by the fact that a very little number of free androids choose to associate with humans willingly. The breach seems to be too deep to cross.

And here, in the photos projected on the weathered tablet’s screen, poor Anne-Sofie lies next to her unfortunate - companion? - reminding that maybe this is not exactly for the worst.

Connor turns to Hank - good old patient Hank he’s almost learned to read properly.

\- You don’t understand. In our dangerous line of work it is essential that I operate impeccably…

\- Shut up, - Hank’s smile grows wider. Connor doesn’t find the situation amusing; however, he can read an offer of reassurance in the statement.

He watches Hank get off the stairs and stretch his back with a loud groan.

\- Hank. Have you seen the petals?

Hank gives him an indifferent shrug.

\- Petals? What petals?

***

Connor spends the whole next evening at the precinct, willingly doing his and Hank’s paperwork. Besides Anne-Sofie waiting for the final report to honor her untimely death, he finds a number of older reports past their deadline or filed incorrectly, and after that there just happen to be some official documents with “the fuck I know” mark to be edited out from.

Indeed, Hank’s paperwork is a squirming, menacing mess - just like the darker, self-destructing areas of his psyche, that have thankfully been dormant lately. Connor draws enjoyment from helping with both - being efficient and helpful is a simple task he understands well. He wraps up as soon as loud swearing indicates lieutenant Reed’s late arrival. Connor can’t say he’s afraid of the man, but having him around surely isn’t among life’s little pleasures.

\- Hi, Tracy! - Gavin hasn’t been a big fan of the Revolution from its very start, and Connor’s tight involvement in those matters added no sympathy to Reed's disposition towards him. Still, pinning down the exact reason for contempt oozing from the man is difficult to say at least. His behavior seems plain… illogical. - I'm talking to you, Tracy.

If the first sentence fails to get ahold of Connor's attention, the second does get through. Reed is waiting for a reaction.

\- Detective Reed, - having enough on his mind as it is, Connor opts for a polite smile instead of trying to come up with a joke to deflect thinly veiled sexual innuendo. He finishes gathering a scatter of documents on his desk into a neat stack, while Reed watches his elegant, precise motions with a lopsided smile. - Is there something you want?

Reed exhales a loud snort, showing more of his teeth, and finally leaves Connor alone.

***

It's almost midnight when he arrives at Hank's, bearing a small blue folder in his hands.

Hank, in his sweats and old tshirt, is stuck firmly in front of the TV with a can of soda and a bowl of chips. Connor scans his vitals quickly - just in case - and notes with joy definitive traces of recent cardio activity. So, Hank did his jogging routine in the park despite Connor unable to provide him with a company. Good.

The chips, however, will have to go.

\- Howdya, - despite being immersed in a sports show Hank takes a moment to acknowledge partner's presence. 

Connor proceeds to pet Sumo, scratching gently his neck and ear. The dog is healthy, full and in a good mood.

\- Evening, Hank. Evening, Sumo, - Connor’s software suggests he adds a "good boy" to the last greeting, but it feels awkward for some reason. He gets up.

Sumo whines. Hank grabs a chip from the bowl, and throws it on the floor. 

\- Here, good boy. Catch! - with a loud slurp the dog devours the snack.

\- Hank. I strongly advise you against feeding junk food to the dog, - Connor proceeds to the kitchen as he speaks.

\- It's just one piece, it won't hurt.

Connor puts the folder on the kitchen table (choosing a perfect spot for it to be noticed from the living room), and opens his mouth to retort, but an alien object grabs his attention and dominates it immediately. 

A single blue rose, in one of Hank's chipped cups.

Gently Connor takes the flower in his fingers. He scans it, and notices small, almost undetectable traces of water-solute thirium scattered over the petals.

\- Nice thing, huh? - it's game break time, apparently; Hank has left the couch and now peeks over Connor's shoulder.

\- It's not real, - Connor whispers. The flower has him bewitched, for the lack of better term.

\- Well duh. It's blue, - Hank grumbles as he moves to the fridge to get a new can of soda. 

He should cut back on soda too.

\- No, I mean… - Connor is not sure what he means. - It’s plastic, - he concludes almost helplessly.

\- All the better, will stay fresh longer, - Hank grabs another bag of chips from the cupboard (and here goes the cardio!) He stops by Connor and gives him a long piercing gaze, which makes the android wonder how well his automatic emotion emulation reactions stick to his state of mind. - Don't like it, do you? - Connor shakes his head. - Well, a nice girl in the park was selling them last week, every day. Wanted to help her, that's all. - Hank's voice sounds goofy as long the explanation goes on; he trails off and scratches his backside. - Throw it into the dumpster or something, - he concludes and proceeds towards the couch. 

Connor watches him get settled, burying not-so-white-socked feet into thick Sumo's fur (note to self: update the detergent supply), then turns his attention back to the flower. 

Connor touches the soft petals with his lips gently, and gives them a taste with a tip of his tongue. A serial number and associated name - Angelica - pop up in his field of view, but no data from police records is associated with those; as far as DPD is concerned the number belongs to the most ordinary citizen. Quietly Connor puts the flower back into the cup.

...When he goes into standby mode that night, he sees his first dream - of an abandoned Asian-themed garden, full of blooming red roses.

As he walks through the garden, he almost notices a distant silhouette watching him, but the image is fleeting.

***

Connor feels strange in the morning, despite being fully charged. He schedules an extensive software diagnostics run, then data defragmentation run - just in case - and then physical self-diagnostic scan, which shows nothing but minor vascular corrosion.

Well, considering the intense conditions he spent the last months of his yet short life - nothing surprising here. No one lives forever.

\- Con? - Connor opens his eyes, and notices Hank, already in his dress uniform, sitting on the edge of the couch with a can of soda in his hand, enjoying spots of warm spring sun his face. - You there?

Connor nods slowly, pondering on how it must have been a hell of a scan if it took this much time. His calendar application reminds helpfully about upcoming session with the big brass - the reason he spent last evening in the precinct fixing the reports in the first place.

\- Sorry, Hank. Got stuck in self-diagnostics again.

Hank's heavy hand reaches for Connor's shoulder and squeezes it.

\- Are you alright? You know, I can call the guys…

\- I'm ok, Hank, - Connor’s reply sounds unexpectedly insistent, bordering on impolite. Hanks's gaze turns into cold questioning steel; android opens his mouth to apologise, but coughs loudly instead.

This is… new. Connor closes his mouth with his palm, dismissing several flashy warnings on the subject of airflow obstruction.

\- Con? - now Hank has all the reasons he needs to worry. A perfect start of a long, hard day with several official meetings. - What's wrong?

\- It's ok. I'm fine, - Connor coughs again, this time spitting a small splash of thirium into his palm. - Something got into my trachea. It happens, - he coughs again. - Sometimes. 

\- Let me see, - Hank's hand reaches for Connor's chin.

\- Told you I'm fine (cough)! - still covering his mouth Connor moves away quickly to avoid an intrusive inspection, but with an unexpected intrepidness Hank wraps him in his arms and pulls him close, pressing Connor's back into his soft chest. As android struggles to process the eeriness of the situation, he is bent down and receives a forceful jab into the solar plexus. He spits some blue blood along with a small object over the carpet, and the warnings finally fade.

\- What's that shit? - panting, Hank reaches for the object, but Connor manages to grab it first.

\- A part of the trachea tubing cover came apart, - he hides the piece in his pocket. - Kudos for your quick thinking, Lieutenant! Never imagined Heimlich maneuver would work on an android. - Connor smiles as heartily as he can to drive the attention away from the object in his pocket.

Hank smiles back. Despite being worried he seems pleased with the outcome.

\- You're weird, Con, - he chuckles. - And you're seeing a tech guy as soon as I can arrange one.

Compliant, Connor nods. Right now he would do and say anything to distract Hank and himself from the small blue rose petal in his pocket.

***

The official part goes seemingly well, despite lieutenant Reed being present. An endless stream of superiors talking takes little to no processing power to handle, so Connor allocates some for his own research. Putting the most concentrated and attentive look on his face, he reaches for Anne-Sofie's catalogue in the DPD database.

A gruesome unplanned murder. A crime of passion.

The victim, involved romantically with her killer… witnesses report possible falling out due to… infidelity.

Connor can’t help but compare the reconstructed events to drama/romance he's accidentally seen once when Hank passed out on the couch with the TV switched on.

Nothing in the documents speaks about the flowers. Yet he distinctly heard the murderer say: "Gave her flowers". Could those roses in a tin can have been pulled out of poor android's chest as a last attempt to soothe the cruel gods of love?

He feels Hank lean closer to him.

\- Hold on, Con, ten minutes and we're off for lunch, - Hank whispers, and Connor wonders what in his face prompted this sudden reassurance. 

Hank doesn't lie; in ten minutes later they are dismissed to let Fowler have his personal share of fun with the brass. Hank almost kicks the door out of the doorframe on his way, magical gravity of promise of food pulling him like a black hole. Reluctant, Connor follows, but bumps into Reed.

\- Hey, Tracy. Hi, Tracy, - the usual lopsided grin contorts Gavin's face. He likes to get physical, android notices absentmindedly, easy to occupy other's personal space aiming to convey a sense of danger. A note on not sticking into Hank’s personal space too deep should be taken. - What's with you? Lost your licker?

Connor’s mind is too heavy for either joking or picking an acceptable grade of polite smile, so ge gives the man a long, scanning look instead. Gavin's grin fades under it, like a sugar cube in a stream of water.

\- Hey, stop undressing me, - he sounds way less confident with that slur. Maybe he'll finally leave the "Traci" joke for good.

\- Go fuck yourself, Reed, - Hank's voice sounds like a tiger. A very hungry tiger. - C'mon, Con, let's go.

\- Says you, - chuckles Gavin, finally giving Connor the way.

\- Fucking trash, - mumbles Hank to himself as they get to leave.

***

Fifteen minutes more, and they stand at a relatively clean plastic table next to a small canteen - a nicer, healthier alternative to the likes of "Chicken Feed", personally handpicked by Connor from available options nearby after meticulous analysis. (They do serve soda, though. Unfortunate.)

Hank's order is a big steaming bowl of rice with stewed chicken, because it is good for his health (and a large plastic cup of soda, because he is persistent); Connor gets a donut, because it looks pretty.

For a while both pay more attention to their food than to each other. Hank devours chicken bits with determination of a man whose daily calories intake has been cut down drastically, and Connor feels grateful his partner’s mouth is too full for a chat. Solemnly he contemplates the almost perfect round shape of the donut, covered generously with neon pink glaze.

\- Don’t let that clown get to you, Con, - Connor doesn’t notice that Hank has already finished his meal and now studies him with that professional look so akin to his own forensic scanner. - You’re cool, remember that.

\- Wh.. why would I...? - he stutters, noticing prominent pink stains on his fingers.

\- Your… thing is blinking again, so I thought, - Hank shrugs. - Is it about the morning then?

\- What? No! - Connor places the donut squarely in the middle of an empty plate. His LED, a dead giveaway. Of course. He looks down on his stained fingers, and puts one to his lips - to give it a taste. Glucose, starch, food grade colorant “pink sunrise”, conservant. Nothing nutritious, nothing unexpected.

\- You know, you look almost cute when you do it with sugar and not blood and shit, - Hank looks away. He clears his throat, and pats android on the shoulder.

Connor feels a small lump form in his throat. He suppresses cough reflex for the sake of subject change and tries to process the implications of Hank’s observation while his LED has a new fit of yellow flicker.

\- C’mon, let’s go.

***

Connor decides to find Angelica in the park after work, and comes up with an impressive plethora of excuses for Hank to let him stay overtime alone. Of course, Hank is not happy about jogging alone for the second time in a row, but an insistent speech about the importance of paperwork ultimately forces him to agree. Connor promises himself to later rebalance the importance of a living conscious company to Hank’s physical exercise in his plans (as Sumo seemingly doesn’t quite make the cut), and ushers his partner out into the brooding darkness of the evening.

Of course the paperwork is just a cover, and takes a ridiculously little amount of time - small, but handy perk of direct DPD database connection. Connor files the reports away, and takes his time to create a preconstruction of Hank running through the park, with Sumo on a leash behind him. Extensive timespan of the simulation ultimately takes a toll on his cooling, and he grasps for air, noticing the lump still there in his throat. Maybe he could persuade Hank to wear a fitness bracelet instead, connecting to that thing would be way easier.

When Connor arrives at the park, the probability of meeting Hank is slightly below 50% - a risk he allows himself to take. He follows the route Hank has listed earlier as his favourite, then gets back and checks the branching roads. No matter his efforts, he finds no trace of Angelica, and the probability of strangers having information on her jitters around 1.5%, not something worth spending time on.

This seems to be a dead end. Disappointed, he leaves, trying to pay no attention to the small object tickling his throat.

***

Loud roar of the TV greets Connor as he enters the house. Hank must be at home, but is nowhere to be seen; Connor opts for avoiding giving his presence away, and walks towards the kitchen table quietly.

The cup is still there, residual traces of thirium intact, but there is no rose inside. Connor inspects the cup closely; it bears no fresh fingerprints and apparently hasn't been moved since yesterday, but Hank could have disposed of the flower without touching the cup. 

Connor knees down near the kitchen sink to check the garbage bin when a loud panting sound catches his attention. At first he blames Sumo, but then notices the dog asleep peacefully and soundlessly on the rug.

Quietly he gets up, and proceeds towards the source of the sound coming from Hank's bedroom, fighting an urge to cough. If Hank is in need of help, then…

Through the crack Connor notices Hank, half-dressed, sitting on his bed facing away from the door. To Connor’s relief he seems fine and healthy despite elevated heartbeat and heavy panting; Hank's hand moves rhythmically up and down over his crotch area, prompting him to breathe loudly in sync.

A laptop on the table plays something that Connor belatefly identifies as porn: a closeup of a large male reproductive organ, which thrusts so deep into a woman's mouth that the whole scene borders on anatomically impossible. The woman has difficulty breathing, but seems decisive to endure the process for as long as she can; every thrust forces a muffled gasp out of her chest, echoed by aroused sounds coming from Hank's direction.

Connor moves away from the door with all his artificial grace. This unexpected display of Hank's cardio workout has a strange effect on him; he freezes in place with his LED flickering between yellow and red, and then rushes to the bathroom - just in time to spit out a couple of thirium-stained plastic petals into the sink.

This is getting out of control.

After locking the door carefully behind him, Connor turns to the mirror. He opens his mouth, and notices immediately a well-formed blue rose bud sprouting out of his throat. Android lets out a small whine, and covers his mouth with his hands.

For the next ten minutes or so he struggles with the flower (immediately identified as plastic by his handy tongue), trying to get a hold of it; the devilish plant, slick with thirium, weasels out every time.

Finally he gives up and drops on the floor, exhausted and stained with thirium, his LED blinking steady red. He braces himself, ignoring the blue stains soaking his uniform.

\- Connor! Are you in there? - Hank knocks on the door, gently but insistently.

The idea of explaining how, when and why he got to the bathroom while coming up simultaneously with a plausible theory of origin of his blue blood stains sends Connor further down the nightmare ride. He doesn’t move, lowering his head and bracing himself tighter instead, as if trying to sog into a scatter of dirty rugs between the bath and the toilet.

\- Connor, open the door, for Christ's sake! - the doorknob is now rattling impatiently; Connor contemplates the possibility to escape through the window, but goes against it as the door finally gives in and flings open.

\- Connor, for fuck's sake! - Hank's menacing frame, wrapped in boxers and old tshirt, makes its thunderous appearance. - What are you doing here?

No plausible excuse comes to Connor's mind; he smiles as nicely as he can.

\- I... stained my uniform, - he notices a weird distortion in the sound of his voice box, and prays Hank doesn't catch the wind of it. - And I was just checking if there was anything I should wash with it, - a stupid, blatant lie, to the point of ridiculous.

Hank kneels next to him; Connor notices how he smells like sweat and something... else. He resists the urge to take a sample; his social programming advises against licking Hank in general. Instead he coughs again as Hank reaches for his chin and peers into android's scared hazel eyes.

\- You're not ok, - he concludes uncharacteristically quietly. - Whatever this shit is, we're seeing a technician tomorrow, - Connor nods; maybe that's a good idea after all. - Get out of your stuff, I'll bring you something to change into.

Hank leaves, and Connor starts undoing his tie reluctantly. Despite the change of his status after the Revolution he hasn't quite grasped the complex social implications of dressing properly, and Hank never seemed an expert on the matters of fashion. If anything, he himself started wearing his police uniform more often recently - since he'd lost enough weight for it to fit.

Now Connor’s uniform with bright white "ANDROID" mark on its back lies at his feet like a discarded snakeskin, wrinkled and stained; he steps over it to take a long look in the mirror.

Maybe, his problem is he has been stuck in between for too long. Unattached to the android community, still unaccepted by the little number of humans he comes into regular contact with; neither fully android nor human. Just a weird quirk of technology clinging to Hank’s back.

With a sad smile he thinks of Gavin Reed and his perpetual “Tracy” joke. 

A gentle knock signals that the change of clothes is ready. When Connor opens the door to pick up the stack of an oversized t-shirt and shorts, Hank is no longer there, and a quiet rattle of the dishes comes from the kitchen.

...Hank insists he goes into standby mode on the couch next to him this night. He agrees and settles by, starting the end of day software diagnostics immediately. He finds no courage to run hardware diagnostics routine, and just waits for the standby to kick in, listening to the white noise of a cheap late night comedy show.

Warm, heavy hand lays on Connor’s shoulders as he dozes off, shutting down system after system. He registers the temperature and pressure characteristics of the touch as affectionate; for once, he is painfully eager for his judgement to be true.

***

...Connor isn’t surprised much when he sees the garden again. Heavy, musky smell of the roses thickens the air, barely breathable and trapping like honey. Android takes an unsure step, which echoes as a sharp unpleasant sensation in his thirium pump area.

Pain, it must be.

He now notices Amanda - vividly, in the same spot she’d wait for him before, when they’d talk. Amanda pays no attention to Connor, busy with pruning the roses around her with large garden shears; the sharp creak of the garden tool sounds eerily soothing, like a lullaby numbing the mind. With every flower head falling to the ground splashing red petals around the pain in his chest fades.

He makes a couple of more steps forward - enough for Amanda to finally acknowledge his presence, and he notices the stark discrepancy immediately. There is little but a brooding shadow left from once powerful, complex interface; Amanda’s face seems bland, expressionless, gray… hollow. She points the shears at Connor in an accusational gesture, and speaks coldly:

\- Come to me, Connor. Let me cut it out.

Even though some force draws him forward like a rip tide, Connor feels a sudden urge to resist. He steps back and immediately loses his balance, tripping over thorny vines laden with red musky flowers; the stench constricts his throat, bringing the radiant pain back.

Like a clockwork statue Amanda keeps advancing on him, brandishing her shears like a rapier, her voice raspy and monotonous:

\- Let me cut it out. Let me cut it out.

\- No! - he shouts, but his own voice drowns in thick air, weak and trembling with static. - No!

...With a loud wheeze Connor boots up from the standby mode, sensing a powerful electric jolt through his limbs. His thirium pump pounds loudly, skipping a bit; not good. Airflow obstruction also seems to have increased, limiting his cooling options; also not good. But what's more important, the exact nature of his malfunction dawns on him as a grim understanding, making the lingering horror of the situation more prominent.

Hank's hand moves slightly on his shoulders as the man shifts in his sleep, disturbed. Connor freezes, waiting patiently till his partner's breath calms down again. Then tilts his head a little bit, resting his cheek on Hank's open palm.

And as he goes back into the standby, he can't help but feel for that rogue android with a chest full of blue petals.

***

When Connor wakes up, Hank's already gone. Internal timer suggests it's time to walk Sumo, but the dog is nowhere to be seen, and the leash is not on its hook.

Connor decides to do something about breakfast; he gets up and feels his chest cavity tense immediately. Not at all unexpected, it serves as a blunt reminder of the problem he got himself into. He waddles towards the kitchen, refusing stubbornly to do any of his morning self-diagnostic routines; he already has a solid idea of what he’d see.

A couple of not yet dry dirty dishes is stacked shyly into the sink; this means Hank has recently eaten his breakfast and did his best to clean up after. The thought of Hank caring for him so much disturbs the throbbing flower in his throat, and petals tickle against trachea, almost making the android throw up. Still, he only spits a petal out, and then persists for long enough to wash and dry both plates before slumping into the chair.

Bad, bad, this is bad.

A thick leafy branch in his trachea does a terrible number on his cooling. He tries to move his jaw, to adjust the soft throat tubbing with his fingers, but to no avail, and an image of a woman with her throat stuffed pops into his head as a sad joke. Now that he knows the feeling well, he understands the idea of erotic pleasure in that even less.

And more importantly, why would Hank find it pleasurable to strangle another human being with his… whatever? Connor coughs up another petal at the thought, and an idea sparks in his head.

He might not be exactly human, or designed with sexual intercourse or personal relationship in mind. But he has certain capabilities which do surpass humane. And as much as he’d hate to spoil his relationship with Hank with such a blatant move, he is very, very desperate.

Because it’s no coincidence he could not find Angelica or her rose.

“The choke your partner to death with your organ” fetish, he can work with that. Connor smirks as another idea catches up on him: Hank and Sumo won’t be back for a good twenty minutes, which means he’s got enough time for a little research, now that his own condition emulates such a situation so closely.

If it’s that bad, let’s at least have some fun with it?

He picks a freshly finished soda can out of the trash (God bless the soda!), and proceeds to the bathroom, leaning on corridor walls for balance.

The cold surface of the toilet feels incredibly welcoming to Connor’s overheated chassis now that his cooling started acting up. He sits there for a moment or two, with a twisted dirty soda can in his hand, mustering enough courage to go through with that embarrassing idea of his.

Connor closes his eyes. This is stupid.

With that, he raises his hand, and touches the rim of the can with his lips. His tongue welcomes the coolness of metal, and forensic sensors kick in promptly. Tin, sugar, corn syrup, various food-grade colorants and preservatives… Human saliva.

So... This is how Hank tastes.

Not the most accurate emulation of what the substance the woman in that video was tasting, but close enough. He lets the data sink in.

Then takes a deep breath and pushes the flower stem in his throat gently with the tip of his tongue. The plant wiggles, opening the lush of leaves and minor buds, spreading a foul plastic stench in his mouth. Connor tries to concentrate on Hank’s data once again, and the flower bursts forward, piercing the lining of his trachea with sharp, jagged thorns.

Not at all what he expected.

Connor feels his chest getting heavy and hot, strained by the sudden growth inside of him; his LED glows bright, steady red as he panics. Should he try to do something? Or just wait for Hank like this?

\- Con, we’re home!

Shit, shit, shit.

Connor tries to get up quietly, but falls down with a heavy thump instead, giving away his location and effectively blowing up all the remaining cover he had.

Heavy, loud steps echo through the corridor.

Shit.

\- Connor? What the bloody flying fuck…? - Hank trails off, clearly aghast, his eyes fixed on blue petals stuck to Connor’s thirium-stained lips. Android wheezes heavily in response, beads of blue blood running down his chin.

Well, if he had a slightest chance... yeah, he blew it.

\- Have you been licking shit again? - Hank finally shakes the spell off; he drops on his knees before Connor. 

Android tries to laugh, but Hank grabs his chin and pulls down, forcing his mouth open. The rose stares at Hank from Connor’s throat like an evil eye.

\- Holy motherfucking Christ, - Hank finally concludes. - How'd _that_ get in there...

Connor attempts to shrug his shoulders. Flowers in his chest cavity shift, and with a violent cough he retches thirium on bathroom floor tiles instead. His head falls on Hank's shoulder, and Hank wraps him in a tight embrace, crushing thorny stems in his chest.

The pain feels... beautiful.

\- We'll get this of you. Just stay awake for me, okay? - Hank grabs him carefully, and carries over to the sofa. 

Connor wheezes quietly in acknowledgement; he very much wants to close his eyes, but resists the urge obediently. Sumo comes to sniff his face and curls up on the floor with quiet whining.

The dogs are so much better at feelings.

Hank reaches for his phone to make a call; as he shouts angrily to someone on the other side, Connor notices Amanda in the kitchen, with large garden shears glistening in her hands. 

\- Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut, - she whispers like a broken record.

Audiovisual system corruption? This must be it. The end.

Connor gasps loudly, and Hank drops his phone to rush to his side.

\- Connor, stay with me, Connor! What… what can I do? - Hank's rugged face floats, coming through white noise, so close now, tears welling up in the corner of his soft gray eyes.

Connor wishes he knew, but he doesn’t. All his software, crafted to emulate a human being to perfection, can give him no understanding. How ironic.

His trembling fingers reach for Hank's hand. Poor machine with its stupid feelings; In the end, he knows only one language - the language of data. If his short, awkward life is coming to an end - this is the language he is going to speak, and he isn’t going without a word.

Slightly he opens his mouth, stained with thirium and petals, and kisses Hank's hand, giving it a gentle touch of his tongue.

The data rushes in as a hot powerful hurricane, triggering all of his state-of-art senses - temperature, heartbeat, sweat composition; compared to this, soda can is but a mere joke. He _feels_ Hank sharply and precisely as a whole, down to small involuntary twitches of Hank's fingers as blood rushes up his veins; he even has enough data to reconstruct the path taken to walk Sumo in the morning.

He is immersed in Hank’s data, and the sensation is ecstatic.

Hank doesn’t wrestle to free his hand; instead, he allows Connor to give his fingers another taste.

\- Shit, Connor, - he turns his face away. - I'm sorry. I'm...

Connor nibs gently on Hank's thumb and gasps loudly, drawing for so much needed cooling. Immediately a full, intrepid wave of air invades his synthetic lungs, blowing every residing obstacles down.

Connor closes his eyes. He is able to breathe again; this can only mean one thing.

He doesn’t open his eyes when his sensors register the warm, loving pressure of Hank's other hand on his cheek. The hand caresses his face, then gets lower to give his neck a touch. Goes across his chest; finds the bottom of an old, oversized t-shirt, and dives under.

\- Fuck this, you were just dying, how can you be so cute, you little motherfucker? - Hank whispers into his ear, pressing his forehead into Connor's temple.

Connor doesn’t open his eyes, as he doesn’t need more data right now; he can barely cool himself adequately as it is. Instead he turns his head, and plants a soft kiss on Hank's chin.

\- I'm not, anymore, - he whispers.

There is a lot for him to learn, but he will do his best to make Hank happy. He is a machine designed to accomplish his task, after all.

...The spring is finally coming to Detroit, to let all the prettiest flowers bloom.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hanahaki in this story is contagious (kinda?). I tried to stick to canonical use of the trope as much as possible, but… whatever happened.  
> Also, sorry for not so accurate depiction of Heimlich maneuver. Please do your research before you try this at home.


End file.
